He was trapped inside his own body and mind — the world obscured in a dark shroud of mystery. But when he heard music, everything came alive in brilliant landscapes of color. Mountains, forests, and oceans appeared before him, breaking his chains, sweeping him into this alternate reality — this immaculate universe.
Uncle Joe loved the rain. It was only fitting that on the day of his funeral the skies opened up. As the trumpeter played “Taps” and umbrellas flipped inside out from the whipping wind, I knew without a doubt he was smiling, laughing down at us – soaking it all in.
After winter’s thaw, two young sisters muddied their sneakers as they hiked through the woods. One halted. “Forests are like libraries,” she whispered. “Why?” the other asked. “They’re quiet. And you can learn a lot here.” They walked on, fascinated by this newfound world — this beautiful discovery in their backyard.
He looked high, low — all around. For years he searched in unlikely places, always hoping truth would rear its ugly head. On his deathbed, he called his children close: he had finally found it. “Time,” he whispered. “It’s all we’ll ever have.” Though his had ended, the moment was eternal.
When the sun faded, we knew the world would harden — as would its people. We were wrong. Old Ms. Tristan brought us in and tried to keep us warm. She stoked the fire, but it was only a matter of time before the cold and dark enveloped everyone and everything.
Grandpa Al radioed coordinates during the Korean War. He was quiet, loved his Yankees, and sipped O’Doul’s in the summertime. He had a fake leg and owned a ukulele, too – A sweet, beautiful instrument boxed up in his basement. I can see him now. He’s smiling. Sipping. Strumming and plucking.
When the lightning danced across the sky and the deep thrum of thunder carried out across the plains for the fifth night in a row, he knew the end had come. Torrents of rain and softball-sized hail pounded all around him, devastating his crops, ripping through them like swinging scythes.
Blaise watched his wife from the cabana. She was ankle-deep in the Caribbean, collecting seashells – a perfect memory. When he gulped the thin mountain air, trapped in an icy crevasse, he inhaled her. Hypothermic, somewhere above Camp 4, he’d surely die. But the summer breeze would take him home.
I write a fair amount of content over on Medium.com. Admittedly, I used to post more work during 2019, but I still create weekly writing prompts over at The Friday Fix – and serve as the editor of the publication. Recently, the publication has been receiving over fifty prompt-based stories on a weekly basis, andContinue reading “Medium and Microfiction”
Good news! I recently had two of my flash fiction stories accepted. “The World is Ending and I Forgot My Grocery List” will be published over at Free Flash Fiction later this month. I’m happy the story found a home. I’m even more excited about my story, “Charlie”. It has been accepted at Emerge LiteraryContinue reading “Two Recent Acceptances”